


Queer

by obstinatrix



Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: First Time, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, Oral Sex, Period-Typical Homophobia, Pre-Serum Steve Rogers, Verbal Abuse, Verbal Humiliation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-08
Updated: 2016-09-08
Packaged: 2018-08-13 23:21:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,059
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7990009
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/obstinatrix/pseuds/obstinatrix
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>All these years Bucky's spent punching anyone who dared even insinuate that Steve might be queer, and then the little shit comes to Bucky on his knees, begging for it. Bucky wants to punch a wall. He tells Steve how disgusting he is instead, but maybe it isn't really Steve he's talking about.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Queer

**Author's Note:**

> The "internalised homophobia" warning up there is not a joke, and nor is the "verbal abuse" one. This is not a nice fic. I was trying to write something beautiful and sweet and instead I opened a second document and wrote this piece of nastiness in which Bucky is really very cruel to Steve and to himself.

Steve's drunk. Hell, they're both drunk, but Steve is the catalyst spinning all of this off its hinges, surely; if Steve were sober, he'd never (Bucky thinks, heart racing) - never dream of doing this, so undignified and needy and, and _queer_ , all the things Steve isn't. Steve's a little guy, been little as long as Bucky's known him, but that doesn't mean a damn thing and Bucky's never thought it did, even if the guys at the docks thought different, looked at Steve with dirty darkened eyes. Steve is a grenade, dynamite coiled up in a small package, set-jawed and defiant, and Steve fucking Rogers wouldn't be on his knees for Bucky unless something had gone horribly wrong. 

"Steve," Bucky says, and he can hear the panic cracking his own voice as his hand finds Steve's face, cupping his cheek, fingers fluttering uncertainly against the sweat-damp skin. "Steve, you don't - I don't -" 

He never thought he'd hear Steve groan the way he groans now, rubbing his cheek against the growing bulge in Bucky's rough work pants, lips wantonly parted. "No, c'mon, please," Steve says. He sounds wrecked, urgent, that _please_ twisting in Bucky's chest like a knife. "Please, Buck," Steve says, and Bucky can't understand why the heat and the revulsion seem to rise up together in his ribcage, looking down at this. At Steve, at - at _that_. 

Steve closes his eyes, lashes fluttering against his cheek, and for a moment Bucky hates him for the way the sight makes his dick jump in his trousers; hates Steve for degrading himself like this, like a fucking little faggot. Bucky's -- he's had _thoughts_ , so's everybody, but he keeps them in check 'cause he knows it's the worst to think a thing like that about a guy like Steve, who people misinterpret anyway. He's put Steve on a pedestal and made obeisance to it, and now Steve's blue eyes are wide and dark and, "Christ," Bucky mutters, his voice stung and wounded, "You - you're getting off on this, aren't you?" 

It's accusatory, but the way Steve moans is all wrong, all wrong. He sounds chastened, in part, cheeks flushing, but not only that. Not only that, and the low sound makes Bucky even harder even while incredulity sours him. Fuck, Steve, did he have to - 

"You dirty little punk," Bucky says, half-afraid and more frightened of what he's scared of. His hands go to Steve's shoulders, suddenly panicked, but as they go to shove, Steve groans again, chest hitching, and then his fingers are tugging at Bucky's zipper, at the buttons of his pants - "Please, Buck, please -" and something holds Bucky still, immobilises him. Steve's a, a fucking little queer, tugging open Bucky's trousers, getting his (oh shit), getting his dick out now with shaking hands, and Bucky wants to throw up but he isn't pushing Steve away and Jesus, Mary and Joseph, his father always did say that Steve would ruin him. 

"Come the fuck on, then," Bucky says, fear making him uncharacteristically coarse, and his fingers twist in Steve's hair. Steve's eyelashes are long and his hair is soft and his upturned heart-shaped face is familiar and beautiful. He looks wrong there, nosing at the crux of Bucky's thigh. He looks wrong and it makes Bucky's chest feel hollowed out, and when Bucky tugs, the cry Steve makes rips through Bucky like mercury. 

"If you're gonna," Bucky says, half warning, and pulls Steve towards him. Even now, it still surprises him how easily Steve goes. 

Steve hasn't done this before. That much is obvious, Steve's mouth all sloppy and too-slack and his tongue cringingly eager. Bucky isn't sure if he's relieved or frightened by the thought, and his fingers scrabble at Steve's hair, cupping his jawline. "Why do you," he pants, "why'd you always do this, Steve, the fuck's wrong with you, what the fuck's fucking wrong with you, you're wrong in the head, y'know that? You're -" 

He trails off. Steve's stumbling little sounds have bled together now into something continuous and broken and Bucky is fucking his throat, shoving in deep, cradling the base of Steve's skull as his hips piston back and forth over his unpractised tongue. When he comes, it is sudden and shamefully hard, and Steve swallows it, fucking swallows it, whimpering, throat contracting around Bucky's softening dick. Bucky is paralysed for a moment by orgasm and disbelief. 

"Steve." His voice is soft. For half a second, he almost apologises. And then he sees the shine on Steve's eyes when he lifts his head, his mouth red and raw-looking and well-fucked. Then he sees the bulge in Steve's trousers, the fierce arousal that had come from -- from that. From sucking his best pal's cock. 

Bucky's spent the best part of his life defending Steve's honour, and now here's Steve throwing it back at his feet. 

"You're sick, you know that?" Bucky tells him, spurred by some note of panic or sympathy or something else he daren't name. Steve _isn't_ sick, is the hell of it. Steve is smart and good and _beautiful_ there on the bare boards with his thin chest heaving, his long-fingered hands and his talented, eager mouth. Bucky wets his lips, staggers on. "Could have any dame in Brooklyn, Steve, if you tried a little, and you're up at attention from sucking cock. What would your mother say, huh?" 

It's so low a blow that Bucky braces for impact, but Steve only looks up at him, eyes wide, haunted. His breath comes more shortly. His prick stiffens further in his pants. Oh bloody Christ. 

"Don't you touch that," Bucky tells him. His heart is suddenly pounding in his throat. He doesn't know where the words are coming from, or why, but they suddenly seem very important. "You jack yourself off over this and you're lost, you hear me? You can jerk it when -- when I tell you." 

It's meant to be a joke. (No it isn't.) It doesn't come out like one. (No wonder.) 

Steve Rogers does not take orders, never has. Steve Rogers is a lunatic rebel, never acquiesced to a damn thing in his life. 

But now Steve is taking his hand from his trembling thigh, setting it open on the ground. 

"All right," he says, meek as a chastened child, and something knotted in the core of Bucky unclenches.


End file.
